Nothing Left Here to Burn
by DIRB
Summary: Death in and of itself will always be its own brand of intimacy. Warnings include death, implied torture, and Antioch Peverell's pessimism.


**Summary: **A short character tribute to Antioch Peverell, the eldest brother.

**Warnings: **Gruesome death of an original character, but not quite at Antioch's hand. Dark themes because Anti has his own thoughts on life. Puppets will be mentioned as well as his former love, who broke his heart but is not the cause for his wrathful personality.

**Quick notes: **As per canon, the eldest brother is vengeful and bloodthirsty. The torture device discussed is called the "Catherine Wheel" by which the arms and legs of criminals were beaten with stones before being fastened to the wooden spokes of a large wheel. The wheel was then raised, and what remained of the criminal was slowly picked at and eaten by scavengers. Unfortunately, they were most often times still very alive.

**Music: **"Katherine Wheel" – HIM

**Disclaimer: **Anything you recognize doesn't belong to me; I'm simply borrowing Antioch for a short while because he's feeling very unloved.

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><p>Puppets. In the end that was all they were, pretty things on strings with no true will of their own. They dragged themselves across the earth because they were not blessed enough to fly among the clouds and up into the sun. No, all they were able to do was drive each other deeper and deeper into the ground, until the earth became nothing more than a pathetic lot, storage for their rotting corpses. And he stalked to and fro upon their graves without reserve; he saw no difference between walking over their physical selves and walking over their mental selves. Either self is easily broken, experience has proven, because fragile things never could stand strong against the honest truth. His favorite part about this all was that from their rotting corpses, a near unrivaled beauty was created. Their puppetic remains gave birth to the natural beauty of the world, such as the grass and trees and the rolling hills. So he would never halt his steps, because they were never meant to be anything more than the dirt below his feet.<p>

But first he would watch, taking pleasure in their deaths.

This voyeurism began as a mere event of attending a public execution. It was nothing special to him then, but oh, how he was foolish. Foolish to think that such a spectacle was unimportant and degrading, only to be viewed as a sort of humiliating punishment. Death in and of itself is and forever will be its own brand of intimacy. Soon, it became a peculiar flavor upon his tongue, one of which he often sought in a world of dry and tasteless beliefs and aspirations. It wasn't a matter of seeking out just any random puppet - no, death could only be enjoyed under certain circumstances. Killing an innocent puppet, hacking at its strings simply to watch it fall was not only pointless but also an action which lacked a certain value, as if mindless slaughter was the same as having nothing precious to call his own. Which in truth it was, because having nothing meant losing everything, a risk too high even for Antioch to take. No, instead he waited until a puppet missed its step, or fumbled over its own two feet in a strike of rebellion against the pulling of its strings. Puppets were created to be controlled, to be manipulated into twisting and twirling and bending over fucking backwards for his and the rest of his world's entertainment. To protest against the sole reason of its creation did nothing but sentence the puppet to its own destruction.

Yet such betrayal was inevitable, for puppets were never meant to possess the ability to dance on their own accord. This inevitability kept the cycle of life and death in motion; when one went too far in their endeavors they were struck down, and the strike sent them to their graves. He smiled at the crystal clear logic, a curl of the lips that was as amused as it was sinister. Because from their graves comes beauty, thus from betrayal wondrous things are born. But occasionally, a puppet's death would be a priceless sight to see all on its own. Priceless like the one before him, for which he stood in the back of the crowd, one of the dozens of witnesses gathered for the show. He didn't care to remember exactly what act of treason this puppet had committed, nor would he bother asking. The sun shone down upon the scene and the air was cool and crisp; there was no use wasting precious time on silly questions.

_"Filthy liar!"_

_"Nothing but a thief!"_

_"May God send her to hell!"_

Antioch didn't make a point to listen to the puppets in the crowd as they shouted, but that last insult caught his attention. His eyebrows rose in surprise and he once again smiled in mild amusement. This dying puppet was a woman? Well, what used to be a woman at least. How easily a puppet, a female Muggle could be turned to the sight before him. They both cheered and continued insulting her, but he only watched, fascinated by it all. There was a large wheel held up in the air by a long pole, and fastened to the wheel was the dying woman. She writhed, or would have if she still had her arms and legs. But they had been so beaten and crushed before being threaded through the spokes that he wondered if she could even feel them anymore. She screamed, and he wondered if it was from pain or of the notion, since the feeling of that much pain at once was blessedly foreign to him still. He preferred to believe that after a certain amount of pain, at a certain threshold whatever it should be, one's mind simply shut off and blocked it. Thus, the screaming was not a sign of pain but one of confusion and fear. A single black crow flew down and began picking at her eyes, and suddenly Antioch imagined clear blue orbs that shined even in the dark of the night. The light blue eyes matched her dark brown hair that he imagined she wanted curled, but instead she made a habit of tying the strands up and out of her face in disappointment. Before he was distracted by his thoughts, he focused on other colors. Like the red. There was plenty of red to focus on, dark and thick and absolutely everywhere - so much that he could smell the thick scent of tainted blood from where he stood.

In the end, each of them was tainted. Both magical and Muggle he realized, allowing his mind to follow this observation as the birds - now one vulture and three crows - feasted. Muggles, well, what they were tainted by was obvious; the unseen filth that flowed within their bodies. But magical folk were tainted by things completely different: Foolish conceptions of everlasting love. The word echoed in his mind and he clenched his jaw and growled at the idiocy. His lips curled not into another smile but a sneer, because the fact that people still believed in such foolish ideas was pathetic. The sheer strength of his revulsion forced his own blue eyes to turn back to the writhing pile of torn flesh and splinters and broken bones: Did she believe in love? Had this doll wasted her short life searching for something that quite honestly did not exist? If she had, he bet it was the realization that her efforts up until then, were nothing but futile that broke her fragile mentality. The realization made her slip her own strings around her neck as a noose with which to proverbially hang herself. Love meant nothing in this world, or in the next.

Antioch was no stranger to this overwhelming realization, having fallen down that into that abyss not too long ago himself. He once believed in love, in pure admiration of anything and everything the other person was based upon; their thoughts, their laughter, their posture - all of it right down to the simple way they said their lover's name. _She_ had been the one to shatter the illusion. To this day he couldn't decide if he wanted to thank her or be witness to her own death, something similar to the one this woman was suffering if possible. But he knew he would never be the same because of it, nor did he want to. Before her he was young and oblivious to her intentions - because no one could utterly destroy another's life without having the intention to wreak havoc from the start - and she left him more aware of the world than he could have ever hoped to be on his own. She proved there was no such thing as love, and he would not be surprised if the way she whispered another wizard's name was luring yet another unsuspecting victim into her clutches. In fact he likened her to a siren, one who also confirmed his theory that death often leaves beauty in its wake. Neither of them was dead, not _yet_, but it was their relationship that died, his infatuation with her and her amusement with him. And the beauty of it? He was left a stronger man because of her. But beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder - which the poor woman on the wheel now had none, he distantly noted - and some have said that she only left him cold and heartless. They didn't know it was his heart that had turned cold instead.

And they never would, if he had any influence on the situation. Let them believe that he was left without a heart and without care. He knew better. He knew damn well that his heart was still in his possession, unlike his temper. That was something he had never been able to control nor contain, even as a young boy. And thinking of her coaxed his temper into waking, much like it was doing then. He could feel the tension in his stance, the instinctive mental snarling at any threat made to his sanity, whether outright or implied. He could still feel her soft skin beneath his hands if he closed his eyes, and he often caught himself turning to speak with her, of wand lore or to mock someone walking by. No, he was free from her now; his mind clearly understood while his body still retained the old habit of including her in his daily life.

He was no longer dependent.

He could do whatever he desired, and her opinion would never mean a fucking thing to him ever again.

_She could no longer pull his strings._

Antioch Peverell had been a puppet once upon a time, but history in that regard would never repeat itself. He knew he was more than a merely competent duelist for he had mastered dueling long before now, but he was not yet unbeatable. His brief enslavement taught him this invaluable lesson the hard way. The nearly fleshless doll let out one last scream, and it echoed his own one of frustration - only in his mind of course, because he allowed others to view him as heartless but he would not stand to appear barbaric even though the crowd had long dispersed. He wanted to be absolutely confident that he was the one pulling the strings in any and every situation from now on. And his dream could only be accomplished if he made it impossible for anyone else to beat him whether magically or physically into submission. Magic has always been his greatest strength, as is expected but not always true when one is a wizard, therefore it was his best chance to become unbeatable. If he could perfect the art of using magic against others, nothing could stop him. Nothing could control him other than his own ambition.

Because he could and because he had a purpose, the wizard slowly made his way towards the dying or already dead woman on the wheel. What was left of her, at least. The bloody sight did not bother him in the least, because he was too far gone in his own thoughts, too consumed by dreams of invincibility. The birds of prey shrieked at him but flew off regardless, unsure but hopeful that they might return when he had left to continue feasting. However he had no intent on stealing any part of their writhing meal. After tearing his eyes away from the nearly devoured puppet and the pile of blood, flesh, and bones it had become, he glanced around the area to confirm that he was alone in his contemplation.

"How does it feel, my dear, to know that you will die and you are powerless to prevent it?" he asked, gazing at the carnage in morbid admiration. There were no expectations of a reply other than silence. Dead silence, aside from the ringing in his ears. He was close enough to touch the pole which held her up and on display for all to see, but of course he didn't. Her broken body was such a gruesome sight that the beauty was nearly forgotten, but only nearly. "For I shall never know. Death will never overpower me," he told the ears that might or might not still be able to hear. "And if Death himself is powerless against me, then what of the rest of the world? To master Death is to master life-" he paused, smiling with a cruelty he kept carefully hidden from his acquaintances. "Well, to be the master of one's own life."

And master Death he would. It did not occur to him, how far the distance between the leaps and bounds his thoughts grew. He slowly drew his wand, the weight so natural to him that he hardly noticed it anymore. But at the moment, it weighed more than ever before. The fifteen inches of Hornbeam wood he held in his left hand was no longer the wand he desired. It no longer held the power he believed he should possess, or the invincibility he surely deserved. "Unfortunately, our time is almost over," he said, his words implying that they were two friends about to end their current, pleasurable conversation; his tone however, was almost accusing her of nearly dying before he was sure he had nothing else to say. "You will be seeing Death soon," he stated, pointing out the obvious. The tip of his wand was aimed down at the bottom of the pole, perfectly still. "Do say hello to him for me."

A small flame suddenly appeared at the bottom of the pole, licking its way up to the wooden platter the puppet was still anchored to. Antioch, not dull enough to be caught in his own flames, stepped back away from the doll's burning deathbed. He watched, fascinated as the bloodied mess soon caught fire. The flames were reflected in his eyes, intensifying the gleam of insanity that went typically unnoticed. He smiled, pleased with his contribution to nature's vicious cycle.

The cycle would undoubtedly continue, taking this puppet with it. Death created beauty as much as it created life. Soon, some poor soul would notice the smoke and come to find only the scorched remains of what was once a living puppet, and what was left would be buried in the ground somewhere. Then from the ground, a tree would grow. On this tree would be wood, which he would come by to collect in hopes of bringing his dream to completion. She should be happy, he mused. Delighted that her rotting corpse would possibly provide him with exactly what he needed to bring an end to his obsession. He already had the possible cores hidden safely away from the rest of the world, but so far he had not succeeded in finding a suitable enough type of wood.

She should be honored, he believed, that she might someday be the finishing touch to the only thing between him and invincibility. Perhaps this was what her purpose truly was, to be part of his most precious invention.

The Elder Wand.


End file.
